Far From Home: A Wasteland Story
by Door2theMat
Summary: Two outcasts, martyrs that have forsaken the paths they once walked, are thrust into the political whirlpool of the "Unified West", an unstable nation forged from a precarious peace between the Brotherhood of Steel, and the New California Republic. In an attempt to keep their heads above the waves, they search for answers beyond the blurred lines of right and wrong.


**[My first fiction, also new to the site, please leave feedback, but be gentle, I beg you** **. I plan on posting a chapter once ever week or so, as long as I am not run out of town with pitchforks for lack of writing talent]**

2277, one day following the First Battle of Hoover Dam

There she stood... a small triage tent, just outside of the now ruined Boulder City. Her cheeks were stained by the salt of fresh tears, but to say that she had been crying would be an understatement. She was sobbing, bawling as though a dam in her heart had sprung a leak, and shattered, letting loose an ocean of despair, free to flood her eyes, and pull her happiness away to sea. She had cried for so long now that she had none left, and did nothing but stand; Still, upright, unable to move, or utter a word. She found herself being choked by the grip of heartbreak, unable to free herself as she stared endlessly at his body upon the medical table.

Burns, lacerations, and deep gouges marked the entirety of his being. His broken body strained, struggling to stay alive. He was still breathing, however faintly. Still, the sound echoed throughout the silence of the tent, raspy, weak, and incomplete. Why would he have done this to himself? Why would he allow himself to die this way, knowing she was waiting for him?

It was hard to grasp... only just yesterday, he had taken her gently into his arms, and bestowed a kiss to her cheek, a kiss that still sent her heart a flutter, even after all these years. He would then place his hands upon her bulging belly, as if to hold the unborn child she carried, and gently whisper into her ear the three words she had longed for every day since their first meeting. Then, with a reassuring wink, he would take up his coat, and rifle, and breach fourth through the door of their home, out into the wasteland, en route to the front line.

The sadness finally begins to fade from her face, replaced instead by furious desperation. "Why?!" She would exclaim, approaching the table on which he lay "Why would you do this to us?! Jack, talk to me god dammit!" She demanded answers, even though she knew none would come, slamming her hands down upon the table in front of her. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground. The feeling of warm moisture seeped into her socks, and dress... blood... his blood. The earth beneath her was stained red, a product of the wounds he wore.

She grimaced, eyes locked on the pool of crimson she found herself wading in, and once again she felt the tears begin to well up from inside her. Just as she was about to let them free, she felt a familiar presence. A warm touch upon the flesh of her hand, calming, and loving. Her eyes darted upward, struggling to raise herself from the ground. It was just what she had thought, his hand against hers. It was much larger than hers was, almost completely engulfing her dainty appendage. Even though it was scarred, and imperfect, it still felt the same as it always had.

She looked to his face. He had turned to look at her, his cheek laid against the table. The cuts and burns were hard to miss, replacing a majority of his features. His eyes were dull... bloodshot... dry, and barely open, but there they were, staring back at her. The look they gave was unmistakable, "it'll be okay" they said. It was a common phrase for him the last few days. His lips began to move, straining to share with her those three words once again. He winced in pain as a tear emerged from the corner of his eye, and slid down his cheek onto the table, merging with the blood that soaked the slab.

"I love you too..." she whimpered, grabbing hold of his hand as tears began to stream once more. Her voice was weak and wobbly, but her grip was firm, and said all the words she could not. Jack's eyes began to slowly come to a close. His grip weakened in hers... was he gone...? She laid herself over his body, embracing him as the blood soaked into her clothes and the tears ran rampant. "Don't go!" She cried, the plea falling on deaf ears.

It wasn't long until the medical officers barged into the tent and pried her free from him. She tried her hardest to pull away from their grip and stay by his side, but it was to no avail. They took her outside and assured her, yet again, that they would do all they could to save him, but she knew. She knew there was no hope for him, not now. Unable to re enter the medical tent she wandered the ruins in search of a place to rest and collect herself.

After several hours of sitting in the shade of one of the large destroyed buildings that made up Boulder City, her senses finally started to clear. The place was a mess she hadn't realized just how much so until now. The smell of flame and gunpowder wafted through the air, a side effect of the explosives used to level the town. Doctors and soldiers ran frantically about the ruins, cleaning up the carnage left behind from the battle. The fighting had raged on for the better part of a day, seeming to have no end up until the moment it all abruptly stopped. The Legion had gotten greedy, and bold, or maybe just sloppy and unorganized. Whatever the case, they came screaming right into the trap left by the NCR rangers, left by Jack. But why did he have to sacrifice himself for this victory? Why did he stay behind...

She took to her feet, and began walking through the hastily constructed camp that the soldiers prepared for the clean up operation. Her goal was to locate the command tent, which turned out to be no difficult feat. The camp consisted of 2 rows of small canvas tents, separated by a wide berth, creating a sort of runway. At the end of the strip there was a slightly larger tent centered between the two rows, this was, of course, the one she was looking for.

She made her way down the row of tents, still weary, and a bit light headed from all the tears, but more alert and coherent than her early self. It was a hot day, unbelievably hot, but it was to be expected in the Mojave, however the searing heat didn't help her head much, and she found her vision hazy. The sensation left her a bit dazed, and discombobulated, making it hard to walk straight, her pregnant condition contributed to it as well. Nonetheless, she pushed on toward the end of the lane of canvas.

She could hear the faint sounds of people speaking, or crying emanating from within some of the other tents that surrounded her. Most of them remained closed up, probably medical tents like the one she had just left. It was undoubtedly to keep people from witnessing the scenes taking place inside. They would be kept private, safe spaces for family or loved ones to say their goodbyes, or identify remains, collect belongings. There were bound to be more just like him inside those tents, blood soaked and broken, a result of what the higher ups would be referring to as "brave sacrifice". The thought of more people dealing with the pain she had been bearing was heartbreaking in its own right, and made her feel sick.

She stopped for a moment, in an attempt to let the sick feeling pass. Much to her dismay, the feeling just grew in intensity the more she thought about it, and about the events hidden behind the pinned up canvas flaps. She vomited. Almost on the brink of tears for the umpteenth time today, she collected herself, retrieving a bottle of water from the bag she had slung to her back. She splashed a couple handfuls onto her face, before taking a drink. The water was cool and refreshing, a far shot from the warm, salty tears that had graced her face up until now. It did well to cleanse the taste of bile from her mouth, and bring some sense back into her as it lapped across her small features. She them removed the bag from her back, a sat it in front of her.

It was a small pack, about the size of a child's book bag, made of tanned brahmin leather. There was a flap in which to access the inside, and an old .44 casing, sawn in half, to act as a button for keeping it closed. It went everywhere with her, although not being too pretty, it was a hand made gift from Jack himself. He wasn't the best craftsman, but the moment he heard her complain once about not having deep enough pockets, he was off to work. He was funny that way, she remembered as she stroked the rough leather of bag. He was always making things for her.

She reached inside to reveal a small wooden box, shabbily painted black, with a 9mm round acting a sort of push pin to keep it closed. He had built it as a storage space for her collection. She had a fascination with collecting rounds made by different manufacturers both pre war and post, an interest that was arguably a byproduct of her upbringing. Her family owned a small arms manufacturer in the NCR capital, once Shady Sands. They weren't the most popular, and were nowhere near as large as other outfits from out west, such as the Gun Runners, or Van Graff's, but they did well for themselves.

She tucked away both the case, and water bottle back into her pouch, and wiped the sweat from her brow before standing back up. Feeling a bit better now, she closed the distance between her and the command tent. For a long moment she stood, unmoving, in front of the closed flap that lead inside, still unsure of exactly what she was going to say. She swallowed all doubt, and nudged through the entryway into the dimly lit space inside.

There was a single lantern on a fold out table centered in the middle of the room. It cast a faint light in all directions, creating dull shadows of the clutter that had taken over the area. In just under 15 hours, they had managed to fill this place with junk. Aside from a static emitting radio, cups and cans lay strewn across the table, as well as mountains of sloppily stacked paper work, and old clipboards. Off in the corner there were several barrels and boxes, arranged in no orderly fashion, no doubt containing food and other supplies for the clean up. There was also a rack of rusted gray fold up chairs, as well as several being spread around the room, a handful at the central table.

"Kena?" she heard from her left. It was Chief Hanlon, the head of the rangers. He was an older man, with somewhat lengthy wavy white hair. As chief of the rangers, it was naturally his duty to oversee the clean up operation, a task he was no doubt less than thrilled to undertake.

Kena turned, and quickly snapped to a salute "Chief". She was immediately disgusted with herself. She was saluting the man that gave the orders leading to the death of her beloved. However it was just a reflex to her at this point, she let the feeling pass.

Hanlon looked her over and scoffed a short chuckle "At ease ranger, by the look of you, I'd say it's safe to assume you're still on maternity leave." He had a clipboard in his hands, and several pens holstered in the pocket of his tan ranger vest, which was situated over top of a long sleeved gray shirt. His khaki pants were tattered and frayed at the ends, and his boots were covered in the Mojave's dust.

Kena dropped her salute, and found herself lost, once again not knowing quite what to say. Hanlon was looking down at his clip board, scribbling... something. She stumbled to open her mouth, but Hanlon spoke first.

"So," he started "I guess you went to see him then?" His eyes looked up from his clipboard, and made contact with hers. They were stern, and cold, but genuine.

"Yes sir..." she stammered. The image of him flashed through her head for a moment. "The docs brought me in, let me say my-" she chocked on her words "...my goodbyes."

"I'm sorry it turned out this way Kena" he replied, with some sincerity "I really am. He went down as a hero though. If it weren't for him and a few other that kept their attention, the legion may have-"

"Please," Kena interrupted "I've already heard it several times now, I don't need to hear it again. Not from you. You know as well as I do that whether or not he died a " hero" doesn't change anything for me" She strained to keep her composure at this point.

The tent filled with a thick silence for a moment, a moment that felt like hours to Kena. She struggled, trying to keep hold of a level head. Hanlon broke the tension with a long sigh and turned away from her, moving towards a small cabinet situated the corner immediately to their left, opposite the supply. He placed his clipboard down on top of it and pulled open the uppermost drawer and began to rifle through it's contents. The sound of light metal clanking against itself rang through the room.

He closed the drawer abruptly and turned back towards Kena. His had his hand cuffed in a fist near his chest, a faint metallic glint shown through the cracks of his fingers as he approached the woman, and outstretched his hand, dropping a dog tag from within, letting it dangle on his digits. "It's his" he said empathetically.

She outstretched her hand, as Hanlon dropped the tags into her grasp. She looked them over, desiring to see his name. "Jack Ecker" they read. She clenched the tags tightly within her fist, and pulled them close to her heart. "I want to quit Hanlon" she said sternly.

He seemed surprised, as if that was something he didn't expect to hear from her. "What's the matter, you scared you're gonna go next?"

The question infuriated her, and her face grew red. "Are you fucking kidding me?" She snarled. "I don't care about what happens to me." She looks down at her stomach "I don't want him growing up with a military mother, especially not with the NCR. How would I know that my life wouldn't be sacrificed next? How do I know you people wouldn't throw me away and leave him without any family to call his own?!". She had tried to keep herself from blaming the NCR at first, but every time she thought about it, it came up the same way. They used Jack as just another number throw against the enemies numbers. They killed him, and wouldn't be phased in the least by his loss. Instead they were celebrating their short victory, and she was disgusted.

Hanlon glared into her eyes, which returned the gaze 10 fold. There was fire in her eyes, hatred even. " Look, I know how you feel. I've been doin this a long time, you're not the first one to come in here like this, raising hell over that just died. There's nothing you can do about it, Kena. Now I'm not gonna stop you from walking out that tent and never coming back, but think first god dammit." He was getting heated himself now, his brow furrowed defining all the wrinkles of his forehead and revealing his age.

"You're a ranger, Kena. You have the stature, the discipline, and talent that the others don't. Not to mention a damn good job here, would you really throw all that away, after you worked so hard to get here? How are you going to raise a child out here? You gonna make a living whoring yourself out in one of those fucking casinos? It wouldn't take more than 5 minutes to turn your leave into a full on discharge, but what the hell are you gonna do with your life after that!?"

Kena turned towards the entrance of the tent, and grabbed ahold onto the edge of the draping that blocked her path. She turned her head just slightly enough to meet his once more, and said with a somber , "I'm going home" With that she would then tear open the flap, and burst forth into the bright sun of the Mojave, forsaking the NCR.


End file.
